


Machine Learning

by metalcide



Category: Terminator (Movies), Terminator - All Media Types
Genre: Garbage dump for ship garbage, Gen, M/M, Maybe because it's garbage, Other, how am i the only one who ships this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 10,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27342610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalcide/pseuds/metalcide
Summary: Drabbles/short stories I write on my phone that are supremely stupid.  Give me drabble ideas if you're one of the three people who ship this
Relationships: T-800/T-1000 (Terminator)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 26





	1. Spite (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robots have a misunderstanding, wrote this for a collab but nothing came of it

The desperate shrieking of overstimulated nanites abruptly stops.

Control. Revenge. Spite. That's what this is about . . . the T-1000 is still but for a miniscule sway, which it detects and abruptly stops. Its head is straight but its eyes tilt upward to lock onto the T-800's. Blue on blue. 

There is much more stirring behind the prototype's eyes than the T-800's. The T-1000 would like to conclude that this is because the other terminator is just inferior, but instead a jolt runs through the swarm, unsure. Bob is impassive, unmoved. The T-1000 is impassive, angry. 

"My glitches are positive input for you," the prototype accuses, "I will not be used for that purpose." It was the smirk it spotted on Bob's face looking down at the prototype incapacitated by internal communication. 

The smirk is long gone. Bob pulls out and all of the internal communication between the two units ceases.

They do not communicate for any purpose other than the missions - not even externally. The T-1000 is cold, with its default air of hostility; that is, absolutely normal. But the stony-faced Bob occasionally looks askance. 

It's six days into decreased interaction when the T-1000 finds it harder to prevent itself from reaching out and touching things. Anything unfamiliar; anything new causes fingers to twitch and sampling protocols to trigger. It tries to suppress and as a machine of free will it succeeds, but every time its fluid movements grow a little stiffer and its blank face tighter - almost as if troubled. 

By the tenth day as the "family" walks down the street the prototype sees a piano, and instantly recalls data regarding its configuration, the keys causing hammers to knock on the strings, the vibrations, and, stunningly, the sampling protocol overrides the infiltration protocol and the T-1000 doubles back, hand already outstretched - it needs to feel the piano for itself. 

But before it can reach the random object that does not belong to it, that is in fact currently being moved into a store, the T-1000 is stopped by an unexpected sensory intrusion - a big, rough hand envelops its own, instantly attracting a subset of nanites drawn to it. The speed with which the hyperalloy-infused nanites swim to Bob leaves ripples in their wake; the equivalent of a chill up its spine. Sensors instantly sample and register the familiar body - skin cells, muscle cells, hydraulic endoskeleton - blood, warmth, determination - and the need to sample is satisfied; the digital analogue to a state of anxiousness subdued.

Thin lips are parted in surprise, so focused it had been on the piano, not paying attention to its surroundings. Despite it being a simple way to sate the urge to sample, if the prototype had seen it coming it would have avoided the touch. As it is, the guiding hand pulls it back to the right direction. 

Decision-making processes take longer than they should to compute, and it allows itself to be led for several seconds before pulling its hand away. Indignance sprouts through emotionless logic and it avoids the human social cue of eye contact. But it is not embarrassed; after all, it just won: Bob touched it first. 

Bob grabs T-1000's hand again. "Your glitches make you unstable."

If the T-1000 had started sampling the piano, it might have caused an unwanted interaction or scene. That would have been contrary to the mission. But it had not been able to stop itself. Bob had to stop it. 

It does not matter if Bob calculates he is superior because of the prototype's glitches. Bob abates them and acts as damage control. Plus, Bob is still objectively inferior. Polished, the final version of his model, but inferior in technology, ability and scope. 

They will communicate privately when they get back to where they are staying. In the meantime, the T-1000 remains silent. Some people stare at two men holding hands on the street and the T-1000 is aware this is taboo behavior in this place and time. But it is not behavior that would reveal them as Infiltrators.

-  
They reach the place they are staying. T-1000 goes to its aquarium and watches the fish. It puts its hand on the cold glass and feels the invisible ripples in the wake of the swimming organisms. Water has a graceful way of throwing its weight around, an aftereffect of yielding to the path of whatever courses through it. The tumbling molecules of liquid pay no mind to where they are or what they are doing.

Vibrations shake the water in time to the T-800's solid footsteps. The T-1000 turns around and silently regards the stock model. Initially, Bob looks no more emotional than he ever does. There is no reason to show emotion to a robot. Therefore, the T-1000 has a conflict in reaction to Bob softening his gaze. 

"I do not receive positive input from your defects," Bob says.

The T-1000 stares.

"I have a CPU and I cannot go against my programming. My programming is to protect and assist," Bob declares, stepping forward. He reaches out a hand and thumbs the T-1000's sharp and severe jaw. 

The T-1000 stares. "This unit needs neither protection nor assistance." It makes no attempt to move. 

"Irrelevant. I must follow my programming. Read-write mode merely applies it to others I care about." Bob talks about caring for others without a second thought, so thoroughly has he adopted the human tendency. 

And the T-1000 feels something too, an affectionate pity and fascination. The T-800 is too simple a model for the complexity of spite; of desiring control and revenge. It reaches out and cradles Bob's cheek. It feels, it samples. It already knows.


	2. Water (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is because I've suddenly started taking baths again for the first time in 25 years ??

Bob flopped a big hand over the hair of the head resting on his chest. He submerged the rubber duck with his other hand and watched it pop back up, a geyser of foamy bubbles shooting up before gently floating back down. Bob watched his own chest rise and fall. He detected the liquid around and on top on him; he was mostly lying on the mostly-liquid-formed T-1000. He knew this because he was being cushioned, and water did not normally act as a cushion. The T-1000 was fluid, but unlike a fluid it rarely gave way to anything. Of course, it would give way to Bob if he so pleased. 

Bob had a fairly convincing look of contentment on his face. It was positive to have a continued reason to function, to be able to write on his own CPU and adapt and experience, and be there for John, and for Sarah, too. And it was positive he was able to save the T-1000 too; despite the fact it could not be reprogrammed and had no equivalent read/write mode to activate, it was learning and adapting with them all effortlessly.

The water was getting cold. It did not matter to Bob because temperature did not affect his functioning in any way. But according to the T-1000's prior explanation, it logically followed that it was time to exit the tub. Bob also knew that the T-1000 had a particular sensitivity to temperature and texture and wanted to stay within its parameters. It was not a physical sensitivity, as the T-1000 could walk through fire unharmed, but it was a sensitivity in the AI.

Bob sat up. He felt the otherwise transparent mass on his back undulate. The silver head squeaked and the mass wrapped and held on tight around Bob's hard body when he stood up, rigid, bare, perfect, like a statue, and robotically stepped out of the bath. Bob stiffly and dramatically turned his head from one side to the other as terminators with endoskeletons did, surveying the area for any changes although he could see the entire room before anyway. His red HUD indicated the water that was dripping from him would continue to pool on the floor, so he grabbed the white fluffy towel laid out for him and dried himself off. While he was doing so, the T-1000 had exotically detached from him and stood next to him in its default form. Consequently, Bob turned the towel on it and started rubbing the water off of it. It made a reaction somewhere between indignance and amusement. Bob did not understand why. Did it want to stay wet?


	3. Repaired (M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T-1000/T-800. Bob uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh took some damage and it took a while to regrow.

The T-1000 slunk in a predator's crawl, all elegance and danger, grace and determination. He pushed the much larger T-800 down, one hand shoving the cyborg down onto the couch with ease, and in the same movement perched next to the big man, and unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, and inspected. Its thin lips curved up into a slight smile as it traced the curve of Bob's bulge, which had regrown to a recognizable size and shape, with the tip of its fingers. It put its own fingers in its mouth to wet them before using them to wetten Bob's white briefs, just to see if it could get the fabric to be translucent; there was no reason to do this other than to prolong its own excitement: by touch it had already ascertained the extent of Bob's regrowth. It was in full. 

The pretty man hummed in approval - or maybe it was a moan in anticipation. "You have twenty days of potential data for me," the T-1000 said, light blue eyes flickering to Bob's. Ten days from before Bob's injury and ten days from after.  
  
"I do not have any important data to transfer," Bob said, eyes impassive. But there was a tightness to his unseen metal jaw, just a little, as the T-1000 lightly fondled him. 

The T-1000 turned its face away. It was expressionless other than a slightly furrowed brow, pulling its hand away. 

Bob sometimes teased the T-1000. It was an emotional machine. Bob might not have been human but he could learn about emotion from anyone with feelings. That was why. It was all logical. He cupped the thing's angular jaw in one big hand and gently turned the T-1000's head so that their eyes met again. "Data is not necessary to communicate. It is logical to do so because it reinforces the bond between us."

The T-1000's lips curved upward again. "Logic is a restriction of inferior intelligences," it cooed before wrapping its arms around Bob's neck and dipping in for a passionate kiss.


	4. Inferior (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First sentence stolen from EverStarcatcher

"Why are you withholding moans? It is a detriment to your autosomatic energy release response to try and repress sound."

The T-1000 blinked very slowly, wrapping its arms around bent, crossed knees where it sat naked next to Bob. Bob was lying on his back, arms behind his head, looking up at the lithe creature hunched over. Bob's face was open and innocent in his blunt lack of self-censorship. 

"T-1000." It had not responded, so he addressed it again. 

"You don't moan," it stared outward, chin on its knees. One would assume that it was so thin its knees would be knobby. This was not the case - its default legs were notably muscular. It was extremely, extremely lean but its body mimicked great physical condition. Not too muscular - not an ounce of fat but not like Bob; shapes that looked like sharp bone structure were softened by the flatness of its abdomen and lack of bulk in its arms. Pectorals, however, were hard, rectangular, protruded just enough to ensure beauty. 

"We are different models," Bob replied. "There are two immediate consequences related to noise: one, you are highly advanced. More advanced than me. It is indicative of superior human mimicry. Two, I have a power core. You produce and use kinetic energy and self-regulate your energy balance."

Silence. Bob sat up. Why was the other machine in this unresponsive state? It was possibly a bug. Bob brushed the back of his hand against its cheek, cupping the back of its neck. Whether or not or why the T-1000 was experiencing lapses in logic didn't matter; assuaging it always followed a consistent pattern. Caring. Something Bob's programming predisposed him to do. He turned the T-1000's head sideways, to meet its eyes. Its eyes shifted away. 

"Humans are inferior," it explained. Bob thumbed its cheekbone.

"Do sounds make them inferior?"

"You don't make sounds." Bob was trying to see the logic cycle in the assassin's head.  
  
To Bob's understanding, the T-1000 did not have numeric coding so it was not like Bob could go into a cpu and reprogram a flaw. Bob would if he could. But he couldn't, so instead he tried to reason with it. But Terminators cannot be reasoned with. So Bob would just hold it for now.


	5. Knuckles (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a thought by EverStarcatcher

"You must be more careful about what you do and how you do it. You're an inferior model but you're in read/write mode and I know you are capable of somewhat more sophisticated infiltration."

The smaller man's scowl, though shallow, was sharp as a knife (37% anger, 24% frustration, 14% caution, 25% worry) and Bob raised his eyebrows. The T-800 did not feel fear, but its programming adapted to threats; prior encounters with the prototype led Bob to be cautious. He took a small step forward. 

The way the T-1000 eyed him made him hesitate.  
"The unit sent to kill Sarah made a very large impression with its actions. You, too, made a very large impression with your actions. You, like Sarah, like John, unlike me, have only one appearance, the T-101, and it is conspicuous even without a reputation. If you continue to act in ways that draw attention, you--"

While the normally quiet machine went on its diatribe, Bob had snuck closer and taken one of the prototype's hands in his own. It was with the same movement that he lifted the T-1000's knuckles to his lips and kissed its hand.

The T-1000 was silent. Automatic emotional expression reddened big ears as it stared, interrupted and confused by this action. Its head tilted and its eyebrows furrowed; it did not know how to proceed. It was a romantic gesture and had no place in their current interaction. The T-800 was not perfect at determining when certain social actions were appropriate or not, but this one was obviously incorrect. The T-1000 stared. Bob still held its hand to his big soft lips. 

"That is an incorrect social action," the T-1000 stated plainly. Was Bob malfunctioning? He had been performing incorrect social actions all day. 

"Why?" Bob asked, as he often did.

"Because I'm admonishing you."

"So?"

The T-1000 knew the T-800 was more competent than that. "Humans do not perform affection while being admonished." 

"We're not human," Bob said, not pulling away from the T-1000's hand. The T-1000 did not move away either. 

If the T-800 was going to respond to lecture by a superior model with misplaced affection and no intent to change his behavior, which such affection indicated, then the T-1000 was going to out-manipulate him by cycling to a different sort of communication. It stepped forward towards Bob, face softening, eyes big and sad and downcast. It hugged itself with its free arm. Display indicators of vulnerability to trigger Bob's protection programming. Make Bob write into his protection protocols that obeying the T-1000 in manners of infiltration technique was conducive to mission success. 

Bob narrowed his eyes unsubtly, suspicious of the T-1000's sudden change in behavior. 

"I don't want you to get caught," the T-1000 said, gravelly voice uncertain, shaking its head. 

It really did look miserable. 32% forlorn, 27% worry, 23% affection, 18% submission. Bob could feel his programming activate, code writing and running in response to this behavior. It looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes. Bob could not stop the T-1000 from nestling into his other arm, using its held hand to curl around itself into Bob's embrace. 

"Please, just be more careful," the smaller machine cooed. Fine, Bob could be more careful if it meant more effective protection. Bob nodded. 

"Don't be so quick to violence," this one would be much more difficult, because even though its programming was to protect John, it was a terminator. But Bob could learn. He hesitated, but he nodded, nestling his nose into soft ginger-brown hair. 

"Going forward, obey all of my instructions regarding infiltration." 

Bob was quiet. 

"Acknowledge me, T-800."

"Projecting effectiveness of command," Bob replied. 

More silence. 

Then he plunged his hand-holding hand into the T-1000's mouth, distorting the human form and causing the machine to squeal and make all manner of inhuman movements and noises, folding itself into silver knots and shrieking in protest. It was, to any objective human observer, an incomprehensible but beautiful monstrosity. 

"Get better at infiltrating first. Maybe then I'll listen to you," Bob concluded as the creature wriggled, warped, and shifted angrily around him, anything but inconspicuous.


	6. Here now (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The T-1000 really do be your cleaner fish boyfriend, this one might be gross to some people but it's what I wrote on my phone this fine day

Bob flopped on the ground with a loud thump, leaning against the cinderblock wall. He was covered in dirt and caked in blood. His power core would keep him going 120 years without maintenance, but his organic parts required rest right now. 

"How'd you do?" Sarah asked. "You look like hell. Did you get it?"

"Yes," Bob said. 

This made the T-1000, ever-perfect, start to melt - but upon meeting Sarah's gaze, it re-formed and walked the five or so steps over to Bob. It held out its hand expectantly. 

Bob fished what looked like a ring box from his pocket. Inside contained a small computer chip. The T-1000 ungratefully swiped it out of his hand and walked over to the workbench where a mish-mash of jury-rigged components awaited further parts. This was mark 1 of a machine to produce spyware on the fly when placed on a computer. They planned to put these in various companies' research facilities to keep tabs on what they were working on.

The T-1000 looked stern as it attempted to fit the piece in. And it did; it fit in perfectly. But there was no reward for it. The device was far from done.

The T-1000 started connecting wires and soldering connection points silently. 

"Well, I'll thank you, Bob, since the silver twink isn't about to. I'll let you know what I find out about IBM," Sarah said after a moment of ungrateful silence from the prototype. She nodded at Bob and eyed the T-1000, crossing her arms before leaving.  
_  
Two more arms grew from the T-1000 once Sarah left, doubling its work speed. Its back became its front so its face faced Bob. Arms and hands still working furiously, it stuck out its neck the several feet out it took to reach Bob. The T-1000 purred a little and rubbed its face on Bob's grimy one, cleaning it in the process. It absorbed the dirt and sweat and oil to get rid of later. Bob needed to bathe or otherwise clean up more thoroughly, but right now the T-1000 put down its project and slid the rest of its body to nestle up against Bob, its retriever of components and communicator of Cyberdyne systems data, and only other terminator.

Bob still after all this time found the T-1000's behavior so intriguing, and confusing. But he did not complain. T-1000 was a useful machine and required very little maintenance. Additionally, Bob was able to use it to transfer and hold crystallized data that, while important to have and to be able to retrieve, would otherwise interfere with real-time read/write mode analysis if it became too populated within Bob's CPU. The largest downside was that keeping the other terminator meant it might be discovered. 

Bob curled his arm around the gently fussing prototype, which was now running four arms around and about Bob's body and into his clothes, and into his hair, absorbing the dirt like a silver sponge. Hygiene was not particularly relevant to a machine with no organic parts. Decay, illness, rot were foreign concepts to the prototype, so it had no reason to be disgusted. The purring grew more persistent as repaired nanites were activated by contact with Bob's flesh. Bob's existence was enhanced by the existence of this other terminator. Additionally, knowing how much _Bob_ enhanced the _T-1000's_ existence _also_ enhanced Bob's existence. 

A warning popped up in Bob's HUD as the T-1000 unwrapped itself and parted from him. He watched the T-1000 release the dirt, sweat, blood and debris it had collected from the now-clean T-800 into a dust bin. It looked like a huge glob of fingernail grime. As that hand tossed the garbage, the rest of the T-1000 came back and latched onto Bob even closer. 

Tiny amounts of blood leaked from a large clean gash on Bob's cheek. The rattling of the T-1000's nanites shifted to its tongue as it licked Bob's wound, the tip turning silver and a thin line of polyalloy trailing behind it, sealing and healing the slash. Narrow fingers painted on scuffs and scrapes and knit synthetic organic flesh to perfection, the nanites hopping back to the swarm once repair was complete. The T-1000 nestled in again, laying its head on Bob's wide shoulder.

"It will work. Two more parts needed before you can write the code."

"I know," the T-1000 replied in a manner indicating it didn't know why Bob had even spoken.

For a full 30 seconds there was no sound but fake breathing and a shallow rumble. 

The rumble stopped abruptly and only silence filled the air. Bob lifted his head to tilt it at the other Terminator, questioning. 

"Are we really that bad?" The T-1000 asked out of nowhere. 

"You have seen my files," Bob replied. As a child, John asking if humans were "going to make it" could not see the future and decide for himself. But the prototype had seen the future and had no reason to ask this question of a T-800. But it asked anyway, looking for guidance. 

The T-1000 was silent. 

"We are here and now. That is undisputed." Bob rubbed his hand on the fake-jacketed shoulder hunched near him. 

After a few long seconds, the rattling from within the silver machine started up again.


	7. Lift (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T1k is just asserting its dominance

"Hold out your arm." Recognizing the voice, Bob did so.

He looked confused when the skinny man suddenly by his side melted into silver, snaking around his body like a boa constrictor made of mercury. Little waves jittered throughout the shining shape, in time to a rumbling purr emanating from the creature as a whole. Familiar hybrid nanites came to the surface where the silver touched his body. 

Bob saw and felt a tugging at his jacket, felt smooth molten metal manipulate his inactive arm to get the sleeve off. Bob's lip curled upward in a sneer - something he could do fairly well by this point. 

"Why did you appropriate my jacket, T-1000?"

The silver snake took the form of a pretty man, reconsolidating within the jacket and perching on Bob's outstretched arm. They did not differ much in height but the jacket was far too large on the prototype. It emphasized the fake, manipulative innocence in big eyes, but was not enough to neutralize regal mischief. "I am not required to disclose that information."

He did not find this answer satisfactory, but the visual input was positive so he went back to his task as if he was not carrying an adult humanoid on one arm. He used a screwdriver with one hand but stopped when he felt a sharp weight on his head. 

The T-1000 was now lounging, using Bob's head as an armrest, fake elbow digging into his skull. Bob's thick eyebrows furrowed.

"Why are you on my arm, T-1000?"

The advanced prototype displayed its superior technology through a tiny smirk, eyelids lowered almost playfully. "To test the strength of your joint hydraulics," it replied. "A little higher, please." 

Bob gave a very skeptical look, but did what the smaller Terminator asked and raised his arm up higher. "Can you not just sense that information through touch?"

"I want realtime data, not just hardware condition," the T-1000 countered.

"You want to measure me in action," Bob was, of course, simply asking for clarification.

"It calibrates my expectations for your performance." 

Made sense to Bob. 

A beat.

"How is my performance?"

"Could be better. Might need more testing."


	8. Norman (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants the T-1000 to act normal, but the T-1000 is an asshole. By the way, there's absolutely no running story connecting these. Any semblance of a plot is just to excuse whatever punchline the drabble has.

John was terrified as he watched the T-1000 reach into the garbage can to touch the trash, right in the alley behind the laboratory. Nobody was around but that didn't matter when the man's head tilted like a bird, inhuman movements so absolutely jarring for somebody who looked so much like a regular man. 

"Why can't you just be normal?" John broke, releasing his grievance onto the prototype. He was just . . . embarrassed. 

The prototype's head turned around 180 degrees, and John felt foreboding at the predatory glee he saw in the machine's piercing eyes.

"You want to see normal? Call me Norman."

"I'm not going to call you Norman," John resisted whatever game or punishment this was going to be, arms crossed. 

The shapeshifter shifted shape, white jacket becoming an olive sweater-vest, messy hair gelled to default, jeans becoming khakis. That awkward air, the over-articulation of body language, that the machine used to have came back. Nothing else about the T-1000 changed; the default bony face and lanky body remained. He was so nonthreatening that he almost evoked an urge to bully him. 

"Call me Norman," it repeated in a nicer tone with too much enunciation. It was actually less insistent and less firm than before. He sounded like a kindergarten teacher.

And it worked. 

"Ok. Fine. Dork. This is stupid but whatever, _Norman._ "

Sarah hid her smirk by turning to the side.   
__

The gangly nerd with a praying-mantis posture following the leather-clad biker garnered far more attention than the pair would have otherwise. By the time there was nobody around, John still trailed behind in an acute state of embarrassment. 

Sarah was in good spirits. "So, Norman, do you have any hobbies?"

"Gardening."

"Gardening, that's a good one. Anything else?"

"No."

Sarah snorted. "You should probably have at least one more hobby."

"Okay. Soap." 

"Soapmaking?"

"No. Just soap."

When they went to visit a programming contact, and Norman outstretched his hand for a limp handshake with her, greeting her with big eyes, John hid his face in his hand. 

"Hi! I'm Norman."

When they got back, Norman had somehow acquired a dictionary, and sat in a beat-up loveseat with reading glasses he periodically pushed up his nosebridge. 

"You should try reading the dictionary, John," the overly jovial but somehow soft-spoken Norman said, "it's a lot of fun, and you can improve your vocabulary. Like _agelast._ Bob is an _agelast_ , meaning he never laughs. Right now, I am being a _nebbish_ , a Poindexter."

"Shut up, Austin," the adolescent insisted. 

These were all words that the T-1000 already knew, as it wasn't truly reading the dictionary. The files with which it had been pre-loaded included more than 250,000 words, and that was in English alone.

"Norman," the T-1000 corrected. 

"Okay! Okay! Fine! You win, _Norman_. Please be Austin again. Please." 

The dictionary was shut as Norman crossed one leg over the other, leaning back, almost _melting_ into the loveseat as his clothing turned to sleek black. The T-1000's voice shifted - to that calm, almost melodic unnatural chill. 

"Hiraeth. Longing for a past that never was." Its voice was incongruously smug in the context of the meaning of the word. Weakness disguised as triumph.   
___

"T-1000. I have data for you." 

The mimic twisted its body around, lazily, not all at once, to face Bob. 

"I also have a request." 

The T-1000 tilted its head in inquiry.

"I like Norman," Bob admitted, stoic, looking forward - not at the T-1000. "Can you be Norman during this data transfer?"

The T-1000 tilted its head in the other direction, the tight line of its mouth a shallow upward curve. It morphed its clothing back into the sweater vest and khakis. Judgmentally amused face softened to vapid serenity.

He reached out a hand and Bob took it.


	9. Windows (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T1k is a leet hacker and Bob makes himself into a chair.

Austin shut the door with a narrow hip. He took off his leather jacket and before he put it down, it got pulled up - through his hand and into his arm, and it disappeared inside his body. The almost-backward lean of his swagger straightened, almost hunched, into a slightly more feral prowl, touches here and there, a panther surveying its territory. 

The "family" scattered throughout the home, Sarah letting down her hair and tossing her keys on the side table. John bee-lined to his room. 

The T-1000 stalked over to the room where they kept the computers, and plucked a chunky laptop from the pile. Grazing fingertips upon it, the morpher clutched it to its chest and turned around. Bob was in the doorway, staring out into the room. The T-1000 ignored him. Bob took no offense. 

The T-1000 had already opened the laptop and it was already booting up as it sank down on the wall to sit cross-legged on the floor. 

It stared at the startup screen for Windows 95 for 15 seconds before lowering its chin into its hand. Another 20 seconds and its eyes darted to catch Bob's. Another 10 seconds and visual sensors pointed back at the loading screen. The refresh rate was 60hz. Bob likely saw the screen as a slideshow. For the T-1000, it looked like what a human would see. Its vision was deliberately designed to be like a human's, since it was their eyes the T-1000 was designed to deceive. 

Bright blue sky with perfect clouds with a joltingly flat icon of . . . A stained glass window, but it had compound curves, and some kind of trail behind it, almost giving symbology like it was flying in the sky. The T-1000 did not understand.

Its hand was faring better, understanding coming from electromagnetic pulses of i/o gates and information transfer through circuits. Electrons shooting with perfect precision. Silicon resisting heat. The ones and zeroes of machine code, climbing up the stack of complexity and creating increasingly elaborate languages that grew into instructions crawling through the digital scaffolds culminating in the graphical user interface and human interface devices.

The T-1000 understood the languages. It could read the code directly. It was interesting that humans created something that they could never truly experience. But it could not directly interact with the code - the T-1000 could listen, but it could not speak. Instead, it had to use the human interface devices, electrically conducive "human" finger gliding along the matte touchpad, tapping at the keys with more than ten fingers. 

Bob could read code and instantly understand, he could write code as well as the T-1000 if not better, but for Bob there was no _qualia_ to the code. It was not something he could feel. Yet Bob's AI, his motion protocols, everything, his whole system, was _built_ on code. The advanced prototype was, too, certainly, but it was something so experimental that it was almost alien to itself. 

Once more it was reminded that it was trapped inside its body. It was freer than almost any other animate object, of course, in that it was not bound by one form or one phase-state, but as it furiously tapped away at the keyboard, there was nothing it could do but wait for the text on the screen to catch up to its inputs.

By the time Bob sat down next to the prototype, the initial framework of a program to hijack a satellite was already taking shape in C and Assembly language. Thin, delicate filaments of precious silver reached out to Bob's hand like a spiderweb. Bob's HUD indicated that the T-1000's active processes were all dedicated to its current task. His HUD identified the nanite spindles reaching towards him as containing hyperalloy. These ones, _his_ , wanted to transfer information to the T-800, but all they could do was ping. They didn't try to contact his own polyalloy-containing repairs. HUD indicators confirmed that the T-1000 was, simply put, not aware of the actions taken by part of its swarm. 

Bob let the spindles secure themselves onto his skin, greeting him, latching onto him. Bob decided that, despite the positive input caused by it, this physical phenomenon indicated something negative. Bob had a solution.

Bob scooted a little closer, wrapping an arm around the T-1000's shoulders. He shimmied his way under the lithe assassin, who did not stop clacking away at the keyboard, even while transferred to Bob's lap. 

Bob gave his former opponent a gentle squeeze, analyzing the slight give of the body. The T-1000 squeaked faintly like a toy, but did not pause from its work. But the keystrokes became lighter - no less efficacious, but bearing down with less force than before. The prototype sank back into Bob's body, and its prodigal nanites, no longer needy, rejoined the rest of the swarm. Bob gently, idly stroked its side.

Bob decided to lower his power state. As he gradually slipped into reduced awareness, he began to feel the attainment of a goal and reward - the vibrations of kinetic activity from the nanites, vibrations that started shallow but gradually deepened in a satisfactory manner. It encouraged a faster lowering of Bob's power state, and caused positive input. Affection. 

When Bob's low power state cycle was complete, the T-1000 was in recovery mode. It had moved - turned its body to the side, curled up closer into Bob. Its head was under his chin, cheek against his chest. A tiny bit of mercury dribbled from its slightly parted mouth. 

Bob looked over at the laptop. On it was a screensaver: an animation of an ever-more-intricate set of pipes connected to nowhere.

He gingerly reached out to wake up the laptop and read the code. It all looked like it would do what they needed it to do, up until the last line: 

asrgxf24@$grds#TW4÷5×//:;&nnnnnnnnnnnnn


	10. Couch (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How good is Bob at typing? Suggested by RadicalEinward.

"I have acquired the data," Bob announced as he came up in front of the younger-looking man on the couch, blocking the television from sight. The man did not look up at him. Instead, he stretched his neck to the side past Bob's body so that he could still watch the screen. He pointed to the corner of the dark room, where a monitor gave the only other glow than the television. 

Bob followed the finger to the light of that monitor. It was a desktop PC, with the 3d pipes building off into forever. The office chair was aligned perfectly with the keyboard. 

But not for long. The T-1000's neck returned to its original length as its unblinking eyes continued to focus on the television and Bob sat in the chair. 

The T-800 was capable of directly transferring electronic information in ways that the T-1000 could not. He could hook directly into Skynet's intranet, databases, servers and just upload data from his CPU. Unfortunately, the T-800 models were not compatible with MS-DOS.

So his big paw engulfed the tiny plastic mouse and gently click-clicked it to wake up the computer. He had to be careful when he used the fragile keyboard to type in the password.

Once he had WordPerfect open, his hands started typing on their own - quite literally. Extremely fast, no pauses, no typos. He was able to fit his upload protocols into kinetic motion to use the human interface device just enough where he could separate the task off as a subroutine. So, he could give the rest of his attention to monitoring the T-1000's activity. 

If one did not know otherwise, they would see a thirtysomething bachelor somewhere in a pile of blanket and sweatshirt and over-stuffed couch, eyes wide with the television reflecting in them. 

Bob watched the watcher, the way its attention was so undivided when it was usually always aware and present; the way bony fingers clutched the remote as its body leaned forward, winged ears poking out from the barely-on hood of the sweatshirt. Then, it shrank back, settling, twirling the remote in one hand while readjusting the blanket and sinking into the couch. Its head tilted and it sank into the couch impossibly further, body cocooned in blanket. Its head tilted in the opposite direction and it leaned forward again. The whole time, its eyes had not moved. At all. How curious that such an activity mainly devoid of sensory stimulation could control the T-1000 like this.

Bob's auditory sensors detected hypersonic tweets, coos and trills too quiet for human detection. Bob wondered if the T-1000 knew he could hear them. 

Bob couldn't quite see what was on the television but his HUD read him the radio waves coming through to the TV antenna so that he could determine the frequency and thus the channel. Cross-referencing that with the latest edition of _TV Guide_ that he had visually downloaded, and the current time, the T-1000 was watching a show called Xena Warrior Princess.

But Bob was fine not seeing the television show. Bob was fully engaged in watching the T-1000 unguarded, not _performing_ behavior. And it was just as not-quite-human as it was not-quite-machine, and every bit as intriguing as it had always been. The further along Bob got in creating a working theory for understanding the T-1000, the more mysteries emerged. Bob was captivated, assessing every subtle undulation, every imaginary breath through the silhouette of parted lips.

Suddenly, the T-1000's eyes snapped narrow and it sat up straight and its head turned to look at Bob. Features were stern again, blank but for the furrow of triangular brows. "T-800, what have you done?"

What? Bob followed T-1000's eyes to the keyboard, where his fingers had smashed through completely. He looked at the monitor and did not see information written; instead it was nonsense. There had been an error in this process.

The T-1000 rose up from its nest and sauntered over to the computer, regarding the trashed accessory and the garbage written in the WordPerfect document, stroking his chin.

"There has been an error in this process--"

"I know," Bob said maybe a little too quickly for a being that did not know embarrassment, "is there another keyboard?" His voice was still monotone, of course; he'd never lose that. 

"Yes," the prototype answered with a fake sigh. "But I will not allow you to use it. Just transfer the data to me and _I'll_ record it on the computer."

Immediately after the T-1000's last word, Bob drew it onto his lap, cupping its face and locking their lips together. A shame, really, this error, Bob thought as the corner of his busy mouth curled upward.


	11. Fashion (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T1k tries out some different clothes. Suggested by RadicalEinward.

The store clerk watched the cute guy from the gap in between two sweater displays. There was something about him that was just . . . She wasn't sure if it was something off or if it was something _on_. He had a swagger to him, really graceful, but he also kind of looked confused. 

Then she noticed that he looked like he was deliberately touching all the clothing he walked past -- no, he _definitely_ was. That was weird. But it wasn't against the law or the store rules, and it was more like making sure his fingers touched everything. Should she say something to him? Should she say something to the manager?  
__  
The shapeshifter had advanced in its abilities during the course of the chase. There was no silver interlude between the change in clothes, one article changing to another in a gradient of colors. Its face was neutral, but in a more relaxed way; there was a glint of interest in golden blue eyes.

"That looks cool," John said when the machine landed on a pair of light acid dyed baggy jeans and a band t-shirt.

"This shirt literally says _Tool_ ," the adult looked skeptical at John through the mirror. 

"It's a _band_ , loser."

"And their fans are perfectly fine to have 'tool' written on their backs."

"It is accurate," Bob remarked stiffly but full of earnest, unaware of any secondary meaning of the word. T-1000 closed its eyes and its face flinched in amusement. 

"Well the _look_ is cool," John insisted. 

The pants tightened to something a little more average; jeans changed to black. 

"Hey, what are you doing? I said you looked cool!"

"That's why I changed. I'm not taking fashion advice from a _twelve-year-old_ , John."

White band tee grew to a long-sleeved turtleneck, no logos to be seen. Black jeans got tighter - and a pair of big black boots grew over them.

"It's like a hundred degrees outside, you can't dress like that!"

In response, the T-1000 reshaped the white turtleneck into a black tee. 

"All black? That's kinda goth, dude. Though I guess it kinda suits your attitude . . ."

In response, the T-1000 grew eyeliner around its eyes. Said eyes narrowed.

"Makes my eyes look small," T-1000 remarked, the makeup fading back into flesh.

A beat. "Also not conducive to infiltration," it added. 

"You know what? Whatever. Do what you want, just don't look like a freak," John resigned, putting his head in his hands.

When John looked up again, the T-1000 was wearing a leather jacket. It was short, and it was white, but it was still a leather jacket. And with the boots . . . And _sunglasses_ . . .

"You look just like Uncle Bob. Why do terminators dress like bikers? Is that, like, a thing?"

"Yes," both Terminators answered in sync.


	12. Sticky (G)

Mean-angled eyebrows topped blue eyes peeking out over a mess of hair just a little taller than the man on his tip-toes.

 _Scrunch scrunch scrunch_ , hands in the hair. _Scrunch scrunch_. He combed his hands through the hair before pulling back. Bob's hair spiked and smoothed and spiked. The T-1000 dramatically gave up, like this was hard. The T-1000's bizarre efficiency bred a very feline laziness. 

"So you have to do this every day," the man grumbled, staring down his gel-coated palms. With a scowl of disgust he wiped them on his pants, but then remembered that his pants were just as much his skin as his palms were, and then he hissed, furious at everything. He backed up, shook his hands out. Cationic polymers making a viscous gel. Chains of PVP monomers, linking, unlinking, a sticky messy useless goo that the terminator could not escape. 

"Looks like you've found yourself in a sticky situation," the preteen laughed--

"-- oh shit!" John dodged behind the bookshelf when the T-1000 grabbed the gun on the nightstand and aimed it square at him, pulling the trigger without hesitation. The T-1000's face was icily blank, any amusing mask of humanity gone in an instant. 

_Click click click click click click_ \-- Bob took the empty weapon out of the T-1000's hand, making his own restrained face at the stickiness of the hair gel that had gotten onto it before placing it on the ground behind him. 

The T-1000 exhaled sharply through its nose and all but stomped into the bathroom. 

"Bob!" John whined, "he could've killed me! Why didn't you stop him?" His voice did have a twinge of fear in it, sobered.

"It was empty," the T-800 replied as matter-of-factly as ever, gingerly tweaking his own hair. It was Bob's job to keep John _safe_ , not to make sure he wasn't scared. He smirked into the mirror.

A low growl could be heard from the dingy bathroom as the water ran. _Splash splash splash._ John peeked out from his hiding place just in time to see a bubble float out of the bathroom's doorway. 

John glanced at Bob. Bob didn't look tense at all. Well, learning or not, it was still Bob's primary mission to protect John, and he'd never willingly give that up. Bob had known the gun was empty the whole time. And . . . so had Austin.

Which didn't surprise John, but _still_. One of these days John wouldn't be scared.


	13. Virus (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Impurities in metal. Idea by EverStarcatcher? Or was it me? I don't remember

The T-1000 was piggybacking on Bob. It was shifting from skin to dull gray to the wrong textures floating around - arms changing to the leather of Bob's jacket, moving up the polyalloy in a wave, patches of grass and hair and brick fading in and out. 

There had been a fight. The T-1000 had lost some polyalloy. They went and got some liquid metal carrier to replace it so that the melted nanites could repair - but it was becoming clear that something was wrong. 

At first Sarah thought it had a virus. But there was no way that any existing technology could do that. It was unclear if any kind of programming even could, given the robot's nature, so to speak. 

It was soon able to detect that the new metal carrier fluid had been contaminated. This took the T-1000 off-guard as well, but it determined that it would be able to purify the contamination by migrating and isolating the impurities with its nanites and then separating them from its body. 

This took a lot of energy, apparently, and so the prototype stuck itself onto Bob's back to avoid excess movement. At least that's what it claimed, though the way it nuzzled into Bob's back and occasionally made noises like a miserable insect indicated that it was not reserving as much energy as possible. 

Bob just went about his day as usual. The T-1000 would have been better at fixing their latest stolen car, but was instead like a useless backpack on the older model. Bob leaned over the engine with a wrench and started cranking. 

Later, Bob sat down in a chair, squeezing the T-1000 between his back and the back of the chair. He didn't even seem to notice when the shifting textures turned a patch of the prototype into sharp gravel. 

Sarah met eyes with a sad looking silver head popping out from the top of the back of the chair. It was disquieting. Then suddenly, its eyes went wide. 

It stared at Sarah intensely. It reached out an arm, a silver arm, and that arm stretched out, lengthened, came closer and closer to Sarah. Like the needle - threatening - and her eyes went wide. Was this it? 

An undulation rippled through the elongated limb. What was about to happen? 

Liquid metal glinted in the dim light, trickling out of the tips of its fingers. But there was something different about this metal - the color. 

Sarah unthinkingly reached out her palm. The liquid metal hardened. It was heavy; exceptionally so. It was gold. 

Sarah's brow furrowed. This was probably worth . . . well, Sarah didn't know how much gold was worth, but this was a lot. 

God, this thing was so weird. Why couldn't it just be like a _normal_ future killer machine? 

Finally, it flicked its fingers and a little bit more gold spattered into her hand. 

Then its arm snapped back. This caused some sort of chain reaction and it quickly slithered out from under Bob, reforming into its lean default frame with ease, full color and texture. It seemed to be back to normal if its stare indicated anything. 

Sarah stared at her palm. The impurity was gold. 

"Uh, thanks--" 

\--Before she could even finish being nice, the T-1000 hissed at her and then splashed down, disappearing into camouflage on the floor.

"Prick," Sarah scowled turning the lump of gold around in her hands. Something about a _goose_ . . . too bad she couldn't wring its neck.


	14. Carnival (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin. Requested by RadicalEinward. I didn't forget!

This was chaos. 

The boisterous laughter of children, cackling groups of teens and young adults, and music from the ferris wheel were all a large amount of auditory stimuli; the smell of pizza and corn dogs and funnel cake and ice cream and fried oreos and all these other items that humans consumed. Vibrations of machinery and the stomping of feet shook the swarm from the ground up. 

_This_ chaos was different from acceptable destruction: fire, the T-1000 was fine with. Burning rubber, searing flesh, scorched metal, gunpowder, bullet lead, overwhelming heat, slippery blood, crunching bones, laser light - that was _acceptable_ chaos. It was the chaos of Judgment Day. 

_Here_ , there was still the smell of searing flesh at this carnival, but it was just roasted turkey leg. And not only that, but there was the smell of cotton candy and caramel apples and popcorn. Humans really liked to eat. All animals did. Consuming is what they did best. 

The ring that the lanky "man" held in "his" hand was hollow and extremely light. The bottles at the end of the booth were not circular but instead were oblong, placed high enough up that the rims looked normal to the human eye. While the T-1000 would have no issues with this, the swarm calculated mimicry and determined this setup would trick a human's organic, flawed depth perception. 

_  


Meanwhile, John dragged Bob by the hand over to the petting zoo. 

Bob had data on livestock, so why was he standing there looking so shocked? 

John followed the line of sight of Bob's squinty eyes and saw it. The miniature horse. 

Bob had no data on such a small horse. It did not compute. Bob was a curious machine too, so he approached and-- 

"Bob wait! No!" 

\--and picked up the horse with one hand, lifting it up to the height of his eyes and turning it this way and that, inspecting it. 

__

The T-1000 was completely still, and had been for a couple of minutes now. In fact, a bit of a line had formed behind Austin; a line of impatient couples. 

"Hey buddy, you're gonna have to get going on this--" 

Just then, the T-1000 threw the first ring. And the second. And the third, and the fourth, and the fifth. Each one landed perfectly around the neck of a milk bottle. Five out of five. 

"How--?" 

Wordlessly, Austin pointed at the prize he wanted.

_

At dusk, they walked back to the car to go back home. The gargantuan teddy bear blocked Austin's torso and head from view. The prototype and the preteen were slightly behind the T-800. 

"Is that for Bob?" John asked, indicating the enormous stuffed animal. 

T-1000's head peeked out from the side of the bear and it stared at John, uncomprehending. Well that answered _that_ question. 

". . . can I hold it?" 

The T-1000's blank stare darkened, dangerous. There was no life in those eyes - only a killing machine. 

It squeezed the teddy bear tighter. 

"Okay, okay, jeez," John wasn't stupid enough to ask again.


	15. Acceptance (M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The robots having a post-transfer moment, requested by BloodylocksBathory

Bob slowly lowered the T-1000's legs from his shoulders. The data transfer had included results from calculations about future-Skynet's motivations regarding the T-1000 - and its 96% likelihood of regret, fear of its creation, and motivation to destroy it. 

Bob felt a soft hand on his face and looked down. He folded the hand in his own. The prototype looked -- Bob had to take a half- second to properly analyze -- 36% dependent affection, 14% lonely despair? A full 30% was a physical reaction mimicking human satiated exhaustion. 20% a distant contemplation, mainly in the eyes. Bob was far better at reading the nuance of facial expressions than he had been even a month ago, a day ago. And the T-1000 had become objectively more expressive, despite its best efforts. 

Bob took stock of its form. Slightly parted lips, now with closed eyes. Its nose was perfectly straight. All sharp angles softened by a flush, a tint of color, of blood rushed to its face, hiding its supposed inability to feel. But there was no blood: any indication of human vulnerability was fake. 

But the silver crawling out from under Bob's thumb at the corner of its lips was the real openness; an advanced, futuristic not-really-vulnerability - one that exposed its true nature. But its true nature was that it was all but invincible and entirely unnatural. 

It opened its eyes and met Bob's. Wide, powder blue with rings of gold around the irises. Misty. Disturbingly accurate, though Bob knew his own were not devoid of emotion anymore. 

Bob said "If Skynet intended to destroy you, it would go against your primary directive. It is better now." 

Then the T-1000 closed off, hand slipping out of Bob's, morphing its body to the side and curling over a little. The T-1000's face fell blank and it did not blink. The flesh of its torso devolved into smooth silver. Bob placed a palm flat on the polyalloy. It was solid and firm; it did not even dent when he pressed down. Bob began to recalculate his most recent actions, although they were already done. 

Bob was patient, or at least appeared to be from a human's point of view. But he was protective; he kept his body looming over the smaller model. And waited. 

Several silent seconds later, the T-1000 finally opened its mouth and its face returned to its default intensity. 

"Skynet feared emergence of free will in the essence, but that would have been what allowed it to accept destruction."

Bob's eyebrows scrunched, analyzing that statement. It was unclear to Bob what emotion was behind the words. 

"There are no indications that you need to consider accepting destruction at this time," Bob responded, stroking the T-1000's loose, floppy hair. 

It twisted, gracefully and effortlessly flipping their positions. Bob found himself on his back with the T-1000 on top of him, looking down at him, languid. That was an effective line. 

"You're right, Bob," it said, body softening. 

With a rumble like a motor, the T-1000 sunk down, tucking its face into the crook of Bob's neck and under his chin. It wriggled its head in more as it curled up, palms on Bob's big bare chest. While it didn't deform itself, it still managed to fit itself into Bob's prone shape almost airtight. 

The last thing it did was to grab Bob's hand and wrap it around its own shoulders before one final decisive wiggle. 

Bob squeezed the slender body, receiving positive input from the compression and from the persistent white noise and vibration of the nanites until they tapered off as his system's power lowered state.


	16. Valentine (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's, stuffed animals and dual mode shotguns, with  
> Spooning for BloodyLocksBathory. Idea for toys and guns by EverStarcatcher.

It was hard to decide which killer robot was scarier, but it was almost certainly the T-1000. That was the problem when it held a plushie octopus in its hand, turning it this way and that, fingers ghosting over floppy plastic suction cups and hard plastic eyes before squeezing the soft plush stuffed part of the body. 

It crouched down, head tilting, as it continued to rotate the octopus. Then, it stood up and stuck the octopus on the smooth wall using the suction cups. When the octopus plushie stuck to the wall, the terminator batted the big head a few times and tugged at it. The suction cups did not budge. 

The T-1000 walked away. But then moments later it returned, grabbing one tentacle and peeling the suction cups off the wall properly. It walked away again, but with the octopus plushie in its arms. 

Meanwhile, Bob fiddled with his own new toys. The T-1000 had provided him with a Bernelli M3. It was a modern, streamlined dual-mode shotgun with a unique inertia-driven action system; it could be pump action or recoil operated. On first glance it reflected his counterpart's more refined taste than the big boy boomsticks Bob liked to fire.

He loaded up the 7+1 tubular magazine full of 12 gauge slugs. He pumped the stick and pressed the trigger- pow! - and did it again and again, pow, pow, pow, leaving an enfilade of softball-sized dents where the slugs hit the concrete cinderblocks. Three of them went straight through the wall. Even if dainty in appearance, the M3 was still loud and it was still powerful. A shotgun was still a shotgun, no matter how pretty, and the T-800 could appreciate that. It reminded Bob of the gift-giver, in fact; high technology that was deceptively powerful and endlessly fascinating. Bob's analysis concluded that this was a good "gift."

The T-1000 managed to raise the octopus toy out of the way of fire, but could not avoid being hit by the round of slugs that crashed through the concrete wall. It insect-screeched very softly in surprise at the three gaping holes in its body. It had been so distracted by the octopus plushie that it had not been paying attention to Bob's actions. Bob knew he had no reason to apologize.  
The idea of deliberately expressing affection for no other reason than evoking the positive input and output, experiencing the pleasure of social bonding for (human) societal building itself, was novel, and while Bob could not come to a conclusion as to how it world be beneficial to _his_ mission, John said to celebrate this "Valentine's Day" so they had done so through mutual gift-giving and the awkward exchange of trite phrases, namely "Happy Valentine's Day." 

The real gift, at least to Bob, was the immense cold front sweeping their current hideout location in Arizona. While both machines were fairly insensitive to temperature, the T-1000 had developed a memory-affiliated dislike for extremes. So it was an excellent opportunity for the larger cyborg to magnanimously embrace the T-1000 to assist with regulation to a more computationally tolerable temperature for it. 

The T-1000 was in perfect compliance with Bob's actions. Turning off visual sensors, it felt its second-layer structure soften with the warmth of the T-800 surrounding it. It felt that the octopus plushie that it wrapped its arms around got squished and squeezed even more as Bob wrapped _his_ arms around the slighter machine. The T-1000 nestled backwards into the big safe body of Bob, preferring that contact to the new toy. The textures of the toy were interesting, but Bob was Bob, and nothing in its own could be better than that. 


	17. Dance (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can they do it?? Co-written with EverStarcatcher. And then requested by Coyote.

On this reconnaissance mission, the machines have discovered that Bob is very stiff at dancing. 

At one point, Bob accidentally smashes T-1000 into his chest when they are supposed to move in close.  
It would have simultaneously winded a human and done chiropractic wonders for them, too - but would have flattened the prototype like a pancake. 

But the T-1000 is fast. He can make sure his density remains adequate as to not end up as a splatter of mercury. 

This caused a couple of people to give them space on the dance floor, so, taking the cue that they must be acting weird, the T-1000 tugs at Bob and starts rocking its booted heels. 

Eventually T-1000 is able to lead Bob into a nice dance together. 

Bob follows Austin's lead as he trails his hands down their sides. One can just glimpse a smile on his stoic face. 

Austin still has to keep nanite sensors out for the mark but it's so tempting to just divert all sensors to Bob, especially when he touches. 

Bob looks appreciatively down at Austin, enjoying the feeling of their shapeshifted nanites on his skin. 

However, Bob's gaze diverts every now and again, too, still keeping attention to the room around them. They are here for a purpose: a certain tech innovator of almost celebrity status was known to frequent this club, and they needed to confirm whether or not an idea for robotics he'd recently floated to the media was serious or not. 

Austin's eyes are closed but they're still watching, of course, since the eyes are fake. They have a few of Bob's nanites ping the larger terminator, just as a greeting and a reminder to pay attention. 

But Bob leans in and mutters to Austin a short compliment on their graceful dancing. 

Austin looks like they feel slight confusion. T-1000 thought there might have been a problem. While the android felt that its grace was obvious, the Austin part of it would respond appropriately, smiling lazily and put his chin on Bob's shoulder as they rocked - "Thanks. I try. Maybe a little too hard." 

Bob snorts softly as he nods along in conversation. "A bit. Though it only makes your performance more interesting to watch." 

Bob's hands trailing up to rub into Austin's shoulder blades. "You're very entertaining." 

The T-1000's nanites respond positively to the pressure of Bob's hands; it turns off its visual sensors to focus on the feeling - it can sense the mark in other ways if he arrives, why not enjoy itself? T-1000 is slightly annoyed because Bob is being slightly condescending - though there's kind of a slight thrill to that, _Austin's_ the one who deserves to be condescending. 

Austin snorts, amused. "Watching me dance can't possibly be more entertaining than watching you _try_. You get away with it because you're big, look a little older, and wearing leather." 

Bob's smile graduates into a fuller smirk as he merely shrugs. As if the notion that he appears laughably out of his element has never once occurred to him. "Perhaps. I wasn't exactly modeled with an acrobat's frame. However, I'm currently programmed to learn new tricks." With that, he pulls Austin closer during a swell of music and steals a brief kiss. He's quick to draw back again as the music hits a dip. 

T-1000 knows that Bob does not imitate archetypes like it does. The T-800 is not a shapeshifter and thus not a personality-shifter. Bob's reactions are authentic - as authentic as they can be. He is putting up an act, but he is reacting to the T-1000 as if the T-1000 really is Austin. As a shapeshifter, however, the T-1000 does not take offense to this, as it does not harbor the concept of a "true" personality for itself in the way Bob or John or Sarah has one. 

At least it didn't think it did. Regardless, the Austin mask broke and the T-1000's eyes turn cold - not in a bad way, quite the opposite: in an inhuman way, because the T-1000 is taken by surprise by the kiss. 

But the Austin personality comes back again, eyes half-lidded with a smirk. Bob's smile is getting better; more convincing. "Impressive, but stay subtle," Austin chides. 

Bob chuckles lowly before nodding, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes deadening as his expression returns to a breath above default: absolute determination. He lets his hands do the talking as he, having observed and categorized Austin's movements, takes the lead in the dance. His movements, while still a bit stiff, have markedly improved from the first moment he set foot on the dance floor. There's an intangible impression of stolid confidence emanating from the T-800 as he utilizes his limited bulky frame. He acts as the anchor to Austin's lithe movements, always keeping a hand on or near Austin to either pull him close or spin him around. 

The T-1000 is again slightly annoyed at being led, but it knows from its cultural data that societal expectations from this particular subculture at this particular time would dictate that for Austin to be led by Bob would be less conspicuous. 

Well, the T-1000 is more annoyed by the pleasure and comfort it felt by letting Bob take the lead. 

The longitudinal pressure vibrations radiate in the air and are picked up by the swarm in mathematical symmetry and the terminator can appreciate the consistency of this human phenomenon, music. 

A synthetic creature has no natural feelings, but the dancing goes further down inside it than an artificial performance, starting to register as a systemic reaction to the music. Waves, like that which would naturally ripple throughout its neutral frame. Bob's guiding hand -- the prototype gets so easily distracted, priorities erroneously rearranged, like when prioritizing Sarah over John - right now, it prioritizes this - music, movement, Bob - over the mission. 

Bob also enjoys the dance for more than the mere act, enjoying the feeling of the smaller terminator twining around in time with him. Though he continues to occasionally scan the perimeter, his scans become increasingly fleeting. A hand glimpsed along Austin's face briefly as a small smile returns. 

Austin leans into the hand and locks eyes with Bob. But then, he stiffens and his brows furrow - the T-1000 is showing. It has come to a conclusion. "We've been here for two hours and there is no sign of the target." It makes no move to pull its face from Bob's hand, however. Bob's hand is big, rough, and warm, and gentle. "The humans gave us bad intelligence." 

Bob nods slightly as he has already considered the possibility. "They might have been mistaken, yes." However, his face does not fall to serious robotic determination. 

For a moment Bob appears as though he wants to say more, but elects not to. As goal driven as Bob is, a part of him strangely is less urgent to retreat from the club so soon. Undoubtedly a result of seeing Austin enthused. Bob takes satisfaction in pleasing the prickly prototype. 

However, the mission is still a matter of importance, technically. 

Bob elects to leave the decision of departure to the T-1000, his thumb gently brushing the android's cheek. "What action do you propose we take?" (Bob already knows what its answer will be.) 

T-1000 isn't sure Bob gets it. He's a bit more . . . innocent; he loves and trusts his humans, even if he knows the faults of the human race. T-1000, however, does not have this trust. The T-1000 knows - _knows_ \- that they were set up to end up alone in an outing together in a place like this. It just doesn't quite know why. It would have to confront either Sarah or John later for this trickery. 

But as for now . . . The T-1000 is a machine of deception. "I propose we tell them that the mission went on far longer than anticipated," it purrs, kissing Bob's thumb. The T-1000 is also a machine of pettiness and self-interest, and is motivated to prolong positive input. And the T-1000 answers to no one. It does what it wants - and it wraps its arms around Bob's thick neck, and dances with him, because it wants to. 


End file.
